Pendulum
by greyrondo
Summary: The trouble I had with him was that I never knew when his anger was really anger, or sadness or something else. Or if I could even trust him enough to believe him when he said he was hurting. FaytxAlbel.


Disclaimer: I don't own Star Ocean. This one-shot is rated M for sadism, self-mutilation, psychological trauma, or, simply, Albel.

Pendulum

I'd always felt like I was inside a game until now. Standing there on the scuffed, tattered grasses of the Nox family graveyard, among the marble angels of Apris and the obsidian dragons of Airyglyph, reality washed over me as if blood were draining from my face for fear.

"Fayt, we should be going," a clipped but quiet voice said behind me.

My bloodstained fingertips—I knew his blood was still there, even though countless washing proved to outsiders otherwise—traced his name, a caress that fell only on cold stone.

Albel Nox.

"Not yet, Maria," I said. My voice sounded pathetic, wanting, and I knew it. Her gloved hand fell firmly on my shoulder, and I caved in.

It was time to go.

* * *

The very first time that I set eyes on Albel Nox, I couldn't believe that anyone actually walked around looking like that and still maintained enough respect to captain the brigade of a war-friendly kingdom hell-bent on its own pet empire.

I say this because I was, of course, next to completely ignorant about what was customary for the time period in relation to Earth history; I also knew nothing about what was traditional for Kirlsa or for Albel (which, it turned out, were not as alike as I'm suggesting).

So the point is, I used to be quite the naïve college student, and subsequently he seriously freaked me out and turned me on at the exact same time.

It was always very hard for anyone to get Albel's attention, even though I felt fairly sure that his future in the Airyglyph army depended on his behavior with Nel Zelpher, not to mention the rest of us, as our guide through the Urssa Lava Caves.

The first time around, it's a surprise if whoever is taking to him wasn't completely ignored. The second time, he lashed out as if he were king and it were against the law to disturb his thoughts. The first few times I tried it, I ended up with twin cuts on each side of my jaw, where he grabbed my face with his gauntlet.

The general consensus was that he was just a jerk, plain and simple.

"How did someone like him get to be in charge of an entire army anyways?" I scoffed in the streets of Peterny, far from Albel's earshot but rather close to Nel's. I was hiding the fact that I was hurt by the fact that he seemed to enjoy holding contempt for me in particular.

"I know what you mean. He's too volatile to be an effective captain. It's pure politics at work, Fayt. He couldn't inherit his father's position as captain of the Dragon Brigade, so the king had to do something to satisfy the family if he wanted to keep close to the Nox fortune. Pity, really. According to Clair's father, Glou was quite courteous."

I'd figure out soon enough that he didn't answer us immediately because the inside of Albel's head was not a safe place for anyone to spend any amount of time.

Up ahead, there was some sort of an argument going on between Albel, and Cliff and Maria.

"If you're so concerned about the success of your mission, then we shouldn't waste any more time. Let's just go to the Urssa Lava Caves and get this over and done with, and stop all this ridiculous and pathetic stalling!"

"Are you kidding?! We've been going for hours! We need someplace to stop for the night. I'm taking the rest of my energy and we're going to the inn," Cliff insisted. Here we go again, I sighed internally. Even more antagonistic than his relationship with me was perhaps his aggressive attitude towards Cliff.

"Just because you're weak doesn't mean that the rest of us should have to put up with it."

"Excuse me? Do you know that you're talking to a Klausian? The word 'weak' never applies. You're the one who can't seem to respect other people's limits. Or your own, for that matter. Look at yourself once in a while, why don't you? Hey Fayt, what do you think??"

Cliff stopped as he turned around to address me. He might as well have shot me where I stood.

"I… I don't think it would hurt to rest," I muttered as I forced myself to stick to my own convictions.

That night, I jolted awake to the sharp sound of steel. Albel's blade punctured the bed not two inches from my sleeping face. In fact, a few strands of my hair had not survived, and short blue threads dusted the pillow case.

"You think I'm crazy. Go ahead, fool. Just say it, say it to my face. You'll feel so much better."

No kidding, Albel. "I don't think you're crazy, Albel—"

"You hurt me, Fayt. Don't worry, it's only one of a thousand blows. I can take the pain."

"Albel, I told you that I don't think you're—" I repeated desperately.

"Make me believe it."

What made me do it then, I still can't say. He had demanded that I convince him; perhaps that was all the excuse my body felt was necessary. Did that make me something like him?

I kissed him. No, it couldn't have been called a kiss. I moved close and provoked the most violent embrace my comparatively innocent mind had ever conceived of. His real hand clamped down around my hips like a vise wrenched too tight; I cried out when his gauntlets raised jealous welts of beading red blood across my shoulder.

I observed in chilled paralysis as his lips left mine, coursed over the wound that seemed now like it had been inflicted entirely on purpose. Then he kissed me again and I tasted my own blood as it mingled with his tongue and trickled down my throat.

That was the first time I realized that he would maybe kill me, and the first time that I felt afraid that I might enjoy it. What was wrong with me? Was I so desolate, so desperate, that I would submit to this in exchange for something like comfort?

Or maybe, a biting cynical thought echoed in my head, this was what I preferred.

He pulled away, taunting and suspicion swirling in his abysmal eyes. "The only thing you've proved is your own insanity," he told me in a haunting whisper as he pitched forward and forced himself into my arms.

An aching sigh against my chest, his cheek flush to my heart. "Albel," I said inadequately as I watched him, in dulled wonder—perhaps the improvised blood loss had something to do with that—as his fingertips stretched out languidly for his sword.

Cradling him in my lap like this, I was torn between feeling his body so close to mine in so many places, and watching him without conscious fear as he longingly unsheathed his blade. A paradoxically warm smile crinkled his eyes and lips as he gazed at himself, then me, in the metal's distorted reflection.

Albel slammed me against the headboard. Pain spiked up my spine and my vision danced before me. His mouth on my throat was a wedge, a chisel edging roughly into my skin. I felt like my veins would split open from the pressure.

I still didn't quite register what was happening to me. I fought, didn't know how badly I was losing until his gauntlet drew jagged scars down the front of my shirt and it fell from my skin in shreds.

"Albel, what are you—" I gasped. In the space of perhaps a split instant, my pulse went from stirred to seizing panic.

My entire body rocked, trying to throw him off. Having cast off the sword to the side—thank whoever was willing to pity me—he drilled his real hand into the join between my shoulder and torso, and I cried out against the pressured pain.

"Get off me, Albel," I said, breathless and subsequently unconvincing. I saw intent flash in his eyes, felt the oily sensation of his eyes pouring over me like lava, scalding where it touched me.

He pulled himself inches away, and I silently thanked whatever shred of mercurial mercy had seemingly protected me from his indulgent sadism.

"Let's play a game, Fayt," he said poisonously. His hand wandered through my scalp as he said this, carelessly running my hair between his fingers, from the base of the strand to the tip.

I tasted the sinful metallic taint of my blood in my mouth once again. I had pierced my lower lip out of panic.

"You're not going to cry out. Because if you do, you'll lose. And you don't want that. All over my body, Fayt, is a web of scars. You should feel special, because I haven't shown them to anybody. I'm going to let you see them, and together we're going to draw them on your body."

"That's ridiculous—" I hissed, but he only smiled and shook his head. A delicate slice from his gauntlet emphasized that he expected to get his way. He had set aside his sword, but not far enough away that I felt safe from its bite.

Right then I honestly feared for my own life. This was the same person who had shrugged off the death of his subordinate, the one who howled when I had chanced to defeat him when our swords had crossed. I knew I wouldn't be that lucky anymore.

He made me hold his gauntlet, made me press down on my own flesh so that I used his metallic hand like a knife against my own skin. I had made one incision successfully, praying that would be enough to sate his bloodlust. Rebellious tears streaked down my cheek at the pain, but I didn't allow an audible cry.

I thought he was satisfied. Instead, he swiftly drew his gauntlet my throat, knocking my hand aside. "That one went deeper," he said warningly.

I thought I could contain it. But against my will, a breath of a cry escaped my lips.

"You lose," he chuckled. He caressed my cheek thoughtfully, then something behind his eyes shifted.

"You know, Fayt, the closer we become, the more I understand that you're here simply to take advantage of me."

Indignant confusion roared under my skin, but I was too afraid to say anything. Instead, I watched him sigh as he looked at me. I watched him turn away and finally, thankfully, remove himself from my bed.

I scrambled for the sheets. That was when the moonlight caught his real arm. He had been holding it out to me; I hadn't noticed.

Did he want me to follow him? He had to be insane if he seriously thought I would go with him anywhere after that. That's when I saw the crossing marks over and over on the underside of that arm.

"Albel, you…" I couldn't finish. I couldn't even tear my stare away from the self-inflicted gashes in his forearms.

"Why? Does it worry you, does it instill pain in your little uncaring heart?" he said, and in those few words I know that he had been watching me this entire time, just like I had been watching him. He had caught all my subverted glances at him, seen my secret and understood what it meant.

"You didn't ever consider the consequences?!" I demanded suddenly. I was angry now, angry at him for taking advantage of me and then turning it around and nonsensically accusing me of that very same thing, angry at him because he was so twisted, so unlike what I thought he would be.

He looked up at me, sickeningly slow, and his lips crept into a wayward smirk.

I wondered. How long had he been cutting himself, and why. Was it because he was so psychotic in his addiction to my attention that he would do anything to ensnare me? How much of the pain he talked about was real? How much of it was a lie so I would remain close enough to toy with?

I decided then that I could never tell him I loved him, that I wanted him to hold me. Because he would only use that knowledge to abuse me. I knew this, and wanted him still. What did that say about me, then?

I was an idiot. I fell for him because I thought he was something he wasn't. And then I tried to tell myself that there was something more about him, really, really, really far deep inside of him. And then I thought that eventually that something more would win out over his problems. I was wrong.

Why did I even fall in love with him in the first place? Was it because some sick part of me was a masochist?

I refused to believe that. And I remembered. I had become attracted to him because I had thought he was…

So I had never even loved him. I had just lusted after him and hoped that everything else wouldn't get in the way too much.

Damn all of this.

"Albel, I'm sick of it! I don't want to have anything to do with you anymore until you stop being so…" I stopped. "Why can't you be, I don't know, normal?"

I flinched. I thought he was going to hit me. But he just turned away.

"I get it," he said quietly, sneering. And then he was gone.

* * *

It was quiet. It was supposed to be Cliff's watch, but nothing stirred in these ruin-like caves, as if the dragons that had plagued us so fervently were somehow afraid. So even though Cliff eyed me suspiciously, he didn't say anything when I walked away from the others.

I wanted to go back to that room. The room with the severed dragon heads. Even though the room wouldn't exactly tell me anything, I wanted to know how Airyglyph could revere dragons and subject them to cruel inspection at the same time.

I stepped inside, and softly close the door behind me. I caught the fresh scent of blood.

"I died ten years ago, tonight," Albel said softly. "I have this gauntlet because I was too weak to be accepted by the Marquis. He didn't want me. I thought I was so strong, I was so confident that I was good enough to be the Marquis' rider. No, that I was even better. That the Marquis would be thankful that a warrior of my caliber had finally graced the battlefields of Airyglyph. I was only fourteen. You'd think that would make up for my stupidity, right?"

He laughed sadly. "It doesn't matter what I do for Airyglyph now, how many battles I win, how many armies I kill with my sword alone. It won't give me back my arm; it won't give Airyglyph back my father. It won't make me… what did you say… 'normal'."

His words were only a game, I told myself. A trap.

But he sounded so empty that I stopped in my steps. It was his blood that I had smelled. He knew I had seen it, too. But he wasn't proud, not this time. He drew his gauntlet protectively over his draining forearm, hiding his self-inflicted wounds from view.

I was going to leave him there. He didn't deserve any better. But…

"Albel," I said like the caress a part of me still wanted from him. "Albel. What are you feeling right now?"

"What kind of ridiculous question is that?!"

"Just answer me."

"I shouldn't have to tell you!"

"Why? You afraid of something?"

I heard him growl his reply. "I've lived—survived—with this for ten years, Fayt. Never once has it left me or gotten better. What makes you think you can change that?!"

Yes, he was screaming. But that didn't mean he wanted to. I didn't say anything immediately. I wouldn't give him a weapon that he would use to hurt himself. I just walked up to him. Kneeled, simple as that, in front of where he was sitting, surrounded by the scarred remains of inferior dragons. The cold light washed out the displaced hate in his red eyes. They were just dark, shadowy. So much was hiding behind those eyes.

He didn't hate me. He loved me, but he'd somehow been taught a long time ago that no one wanted to listen. So no one heard him, when he had cried out that the only person he really hated was himself.

I took his arms in my hands, felt his blood trickle into my palms. I didn't bother with any pretentious promises, 'this will be the last time this ever happens', or anything like that. There were no guarantees, but I wanted to be here to give him the chance.

I looked up at him, at the simmering scowl set in his features. That's when I found the right words.

"Because I know that, deep inside, you want me to. You want me to help you, Albel. That's why."

I watched his expression break. His breath caught in his throat, and I realized how easy it was to convince the world that you were angry, but still cry.

* * *

Albel was waiting for me when Maria and I returned to the _Diplo_. It was easy to fake his death. He'd simply never returned from the Urssa Lava Caves. Funny how it works like that.

"Fayt," he called out to me as Maria disappeared with a sideways smile playing on her lips.

Not anything else, but my name. I grinned. "Albel," I said, with relief at finding him awake and alert. "How did it go?" The operation, I meant. But he knew that already.

"Let me show you," he told me, and wrapped his arms around me. Both of them.

I stood back a foot, held his arms in my hands just like I had in the Urssa Lava Caves. "Do you feel that?" I asked when I tightened my grip around his left forearm.

"You're the one who told me you could do this, and now you doubt it?" he told me pointedly, but with a laugh in his voice, as his warm hands framed my face. Who knew he could be like this?

Maybe he should have come down to Airyglyph with me after all. Without his gauntlet, with two ordinary hands, I wondered how many people would recognize Albel the Wicked without his scars.

Some things needed to die if he wanted to live.


End file.
